Sometime Around Midnight
by ResistPsychicDeath
Summary: "The first time they had kissed, it had been sometime around midnight. That much they could remember." Daryl/Glenn. R&R.


**Disclaimer: I don't own the Walking Dead. I wish I did, but I don't.**

_**Author's Note: **This is another one of those "first kiss" fanfics. I wrote this a couple months ago, before I wrote "A Question of Thirst", so I do admit to repeating some dialogue. For example, the way I describe Daryl's intimidating looks, his clothes, etc. And the squirrels. So I do apologize in advance for basically repeating the same sentences. This was a draft at the time, before I decided to change my approach on things. I didn't edit it or anything, so if it sucks, you have every right to tell me._

_By the way, the title of this fic was inspired by an Airborne Toxic Event song. R&R is very appreciated! I love hearing your comments._

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><p><strong>Sometime Around Midnight<br>**

The first time they had kissed, it had been sometime around midnight. That much they could remember.

The two men had been sitting by the crackling fire light, blankets wrapped tightly around their torsos. The pale moon shone brightly in the blackened sky, through the puffy white clouds deeming high above their heads. Half-empty bottles of whiskey were sprawled across the dirty campsite ground, the smell of alcohol and ashes perfuming the crisp December air. Everything had seemed fuzzy and unreal. Believe it or not, it wasn't a new feeling, though it was a feeling that suited them well.

Many of those same winter nights, when all of the other camp members would crawl into their tents, Daryl would yank Glenn to the fire pit, lugging the beverages at his side. At first, Glenn was a bit hesitant of the idea―especially because Daryl wasn't the most sociable around camp. He was mysterious and intimidating; the way he swaggered around with a crossbow slung over his shoulder, the thick, gooey blood of slayed walkers slathered proudly across his clothes. He would mumble a few words here and there, mostly obscenities, as he polished off his weapons or skinned a few squirrels. But he never carried on conversations or interacted with the rest of the group; unless, of course, it was to piss somebody off. So Glenn was a bit terrified of the man at first. But naturally, as time progressed, he learned to trust the older man, despite how distant he was and how different he seemed.

After all, you can't judge a book by its cover... even if it's a Dixon brother.

When they got to the pit, Daryl would shove a bottle into the younger man's hands. Sometimes it would be vodka; sometimes it would be beer. It really didn't matter what kind it was, especially when you were drinking towards oblivion ― which was _exactly_ what they were doing. As long as you could feel that certain buzz, radiating throughout your body as you let the warm liquid slide down your throat. For the two men, this became quite an addiction. They would sprawl out by the fire for hours on end, giggling to themselves as they watched the burning flames move harmoniously with the bitter wind. After the fifth or sixth drink, everything started to become blurry and numb, and they started to losing grip on what was real. That's usually when Daryl would make the typical mistake of opening his mouth.

It was surprising, the things that he would spit out. He was different when he was drunk. Sometimes Glenn would assume that he was only saying those things because he was merely intoxicated ― spewing out random shit just to get himself some attention. But other times, he believed the things he spoke had something to do with internal feelings; the ones that he never showed. This night was no different. The man cleared his throat, looking up from the fire.

"Hey... Glenn?" he slurred in his thick Southern accent. Silent flames danced inside the pupils of his glassy, bloodshot eyes.

"Mm-hmm?" Glenn hummed, pushing a bottle to his lips. He couldn't even taste the whiskey anymore, not even as it scalded down his throat. Nevertheless, he gulped it down anyways, the earthy flavor drowning his insides out, sending his mind spinning in endless circles. The way it was supposed to be.

A devilish smile spread across the older man's face. "You're pretty fuckin' cute when you drink," he said, eyebrows raised suggestively. "Your cheeks... they get all_ red._"

Glenn snorted, setting the bottle back on the ground. "Is that so?" he mused, aimlessly pulling a hand through his sweaty bush of hair.

"Uh-huh." Daryl took another swig, swishing the liquid around in his mouth before swallowing it down. Like mouthwash ― except Glenn was pretty sure that you weren't supposed to swallow mouthwash. "And your eyes," the older man continued, gazing at the younger man with his own personal beguilement, trying desperately hard to force down a chuckle. "They get all... _dilated_..."

Glenn shook his head, gazing back at the man with a bit of amusement himself. "You call that _cute_?" he laughed.

"Yeah, I do," he said a-matter-of-factly, leaning in a little closer, left knee pressing against Glenn's. If the younger man weren't drunk, he probably would've shifted away out of shyness, but instead, he just let it linger there. The warmth of the older man's body felt... _nice_ against his. Comfortable, almost. He'd never gotten this close to anyone in _weeks_, and the combination of the pungent-smelling drink and his emotional thirst was quite a powerful force.

"Lemme ask you somethin', Glenn," Daryl muttered, spacey eyes still locked with his. He was still casting off that fiendish grin, as if he had been plotting to ask this from the start.

"Mmmm-kay."

Daryl sighed, his hot breath hitting the side of the younger man's face; it sent fuzzy tingles traveling up his spine, tickling his skin. "You like me?" the older man asked curiously, voice slurring.

"Yeah. I like you." He had been telling the truth, of course. There was no reason to _not_ like the man, especially considering the circumstances they were in. In fact, for the past few nights Daryl had been a lot friendlier than usual.

Glenn reached across the dirty ground and picked up another bottle, unscrewing the cap and tilting the rim to his mouth. The alcohol burned his puffy lips, burned as it filled the swollen pockets of his cheeks.

"Yeah," Daryl persisted, watching the man intently, "but do you _really_ like me?"

"_Yes_," Glenn nodded, gargled alcohol spilling down his chin, onto his tattered clothes and drenching his blanket. Oh well. "I really like you, Daryl," he said shallowly, as if he were speaking underwater. "_Really_... I do."

It was at that very moment that Daryl had done it; knocked the bottle out of the younger man's hands, sending it crashing onto the ground with a violent _bang_. In no less than a second, he had coiled his arm around the other man's neck and pushed his lips against his. There was no particular way to describe the moment, though one could say it was a buildup of sorts. Or just some typical drunken experiment. It was kind of like the emotion vs. alcohol argument all over again, except this time, he couldn't decipher the two. Everything was buzzing. All he could feel was Daryl's stinging lips mingling sloppily with his own, his desperate tongue slipping into his mouth.

When the older man pulled back in a mess of whiskey-tinged spit, he giggled, watching a confused, yet somewhat amused expression formulate on the younger man's face. That was the exact moment that he whispered something; something that a very drunken Glenn would never forget.

"I like you, too."

Everything from that point on became a distant blur.


End file.
